Memento Mori
by The Readers Muse
Summary: It was a negotiation of love against gravity.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own MTV's Teen Wolf or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

 **Authors Note #1:** Part of the "Regress to my mean" series. This story is meant to fit in to the events of Chapter 24 of "Regress to my mean (and kiss me pretty)." This stand-alone ficlet will not make sense unless you have read that far in the previously mentioned fic. – This fic focuses on Lydia and how she processes what happened over the past few chapters and what occurs later that evening when the events of Chapter 24 have been dealt with.

 **Warnings:** Spoilers for seasons three and four and one or two vague illusions to things that have happened in season five.

 **Memento Mori**

"Derek and Mr. Argent were right," she said faintly, shuddering as she and Parrish watched Coach lurch to the side of the road looking queasy. Like he wanted to vomit but didn't have to and wasn't sure which part of that disturbed him more.

"Right about what?" Parrish murmured, shrugging out of his jacket and wrapping it around her shoulders with a quiet hum.

Neither of them were able to look away when the Sheriff tossed Chris a blanket from the back of his squad car. Crossing the black-top to wrap the bulk of it around Coach's waist. Safely covering his lower half as the man leaned into Chris instinctively. Seeking comfort despite the muscles in his calves twitching prominent and on edge. Face and chest covered in drying red as Chris said something she couldn't catch. Hushing close as his hands fluttered across the man's bare skin. Touching like he'd forgotten they weren't alone. Helping drain the tension slowly - like molasses through a sieve.

"His trigger," she murmured, barely able to keep her teeth from clacking as the stress from the past few hours threatened to get the better of her. "It's protective. That's why he shifted on the field in the first place. It wasn't because of him or his wounds. It was because of _us_. We were in danger. That was why he-"

"Hey, hey- Lydia, look at me," Parrish told her, moving so he was in front of her. Blocking her view as Coach Finstock and Mr. Argent swayed together on the side of the road. "This isn't your fault."

"I know," she returned automatically. Knowing he was right even though she still couldn't account for the missing span of hours between school and when she'd turned up outside Coach's office.

"But you feel guilty."

It didn't come out of his mouth like a question, so she didn't treat it as one. Instead, she looked over his shoulder. Off into a dark that hid more than just trees.

"I wish he didn't have to do this. Any of it," she said instead. Shaking her head as her hair sheathed in front of her face. Unable to help the small smile that followed when he reached up and tucked the worst of it behind her ear. Even his callouses somehow managing to come across as gentle.

"I know," he answered softly. Knuckling the back of his head as he pulled her in like she was made of glass. Careful and almost reverent.

"A lot of innocent people end up dying around us," she murmured quietly. Trying not to be too obvious about it when she realized she couldn't look away. Watching him through every vulnerable moment as Coach shook his head like he was trying to clear it. Wiping at the blood drying across his skin as Chris leaned close again. Saying something. Meaning it. Then rephrasing it a different way. Reaching up to get the spots he missed as the Coach's large palm almost dwarfed his shoulder, grudgingly using him as a brace before pointing back towards the school.

It was a negotiation of love against gravity.

"But he didn't," Parrish pointed out, one hand coming up to ghost across her shoulder before falling away again. "You've seen what he can do. It's on another level. I've never seen anything like it- _like_ _what_ _he_ _is_. And considering this is Beacon Hills, that's saying something. I have a feeling I'm going to be a piece of cake in comparison. We'll get there, I know it. But him? He feels almost-"

"I know," she returned sadly. Conscious that a weight which had no business feeling as familiar as it did, was settling in the air above their heads like a threat. "I just wish he didn't have to go through this again."

The silence ate perfect good oxygen until he fixed her with a strange look.

"What?" she asked. Too drained to be nonplussed by his expression as the Coach chose that moment to look over at her. Staring at her like he'd heard every word as Parrish shuffled a couple inches closer. Bowing his head for a long, heavy moment before looking up at her with hooded eyes.

"You said _again_ ," he told her softly, pressing warm into her space as she gave it up gladly. Thoughts and emotions still caught and reeling until the Coach finally nodded at her – smiling weakly before Parrish caught her attention. Curling her palm in his like she was the most fragile thing in the world. " _Again,_ Lydia _. You said 'again'-_ like he's done this before."

Neither of them said anything for a long time after that.

* * *

It wasn't until she was back home in her room that the voices started whispering again. Screaming with lonely, familiar mouths. Reminding her why she'd been at the school in the first place. Remembering suddenly that she'd been trying to warn him as the voices jumbled and-

Her back arched as a voice coated her with history from the inside out. Telling her secrets she wouldn't remember in the morning. Watching the past play out on the white of her bedroom wall as her mug of tea went cold beside her.

Seeing the pieces of an ageless puzzle in flicker-flash fragments as a man that could have been the Coach's twin grew up under the England sun. Sweating in a thin cotton shirt as he brought in the summer harvest, while a man that looked just like Mr. Argent - only younger - watched him from the shade with a small, secret smile. Seeing their story play out like she was there - more vibrant and precious than anything she'd ever experienced or even heard about.

Like when they'd come together that first time in the hedgerows during a dusky fall twilight. Hidden from everything but nature as they flattened the long grass and crushed wild sage under their skin until the air was thick with the scent of heather and old-world spice. Tugging at their clothes with mouths that were hungry for something more than just bare skin and sinful sounds before the man with the black hair swallowed the other down with a sound that made her insides shiver. Finding something close to religious in the way the man that could have been Chris arched, head tipping back as his fingers dug into the man's thick curls and got lost there. Coaxing each other through an experience both of them already knew the rhythm to. Because somehow, they'd done this before. But that realization would come later, and with it, more questions than answers.

Then she saw that moment in the forest that changed everything and nothing at all. Watching the shadows of a pack of rogue wolves circle the man with Mr. Argent's face and another. Letting them waste their pellets and powder as the werewolves used their supernatural speed to dodge just in time. Features shifting like an eldritch horror-show when the man tucked safely behind Mr. Argent finally tripped on a root and went sprawling. Opening their tight formation to attack as the rain slicked their clothes tight to their skin. Making the wolves laugh with inhuman vocal chords before a distant roar shocked the world to a deathly still. Feeling elation rise like a living tide as the man with Mr. Argent's face looked up into the storm and mouthed his lover's name. Not knowing how it was him or why. But giving thanks all the same.

She experienced every memory like she was there.

Like she was a part of it as those two weary voices shared their mutual coming of age.

Gentling her through the parts that burned and ached - but not hiding them from her.

Allowing her to see their life together was it was, brief and heart-sore, but still rich beyond measure.

* * *

She woke up the next morning with a strange, anticipatory sort of feeling. Something that didn't have anything to do with her advanced chemistry report or the essay in Post Modern Literature that was due the following week. Confidentially internalizing the realization as she slipped out of bed and into the shower, that they'd barely managed to scratch the surface when it came to what Coach Finstock actually was.

* * *

 **A/N:** This story is now complete. Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think.

 **Reference:**

* _Memento mori:_ (latin: "remember (that you have) to die"): The medieval Latin theory and practice of reflection on mortality, especially as a means of considering the vanity of earthly life and the transient nature of all earthly goods and pursuits.


End file.
